


In light, in memory

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Elf/Human love makin', Flashbacks, Fluff, I swear they're not in the same scenes, Lord/Vassal Dynamics, M/M, Major Character Injury, Memory, Mild Gore, Yes the tags include both major character death and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his darkest hour, Finrod remembers his lightest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In light, in memory

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. This is the first part of an exchange I’m doing with the wildly talented artist nisiedrawsstuff. Basically, we have decided to dramatically increase the amount of material out there for a certain favorite ship of ours, mwahaha.  
> 1\. I actually feel bad - I had every intent of making this an adorable, fluffy fic, but then...I’ve had this headcanon for a while, about Finrod, and memory, and...shit got really really dark. There’s still fluff, but I would say this is equal parts sweetness and pure fucking devastation.

There is pain, all around him, pressing in on his eyeballs and his lungs, devouring him from the inside as well as the out, blood – his? No, the other’s – trickling down his throat. He spits out a tooth, a hunk of meat along with it.

“They never tell you ripping throats is so hard on the teeth,” he murmurs, slurs, almost dreamily, and then faints.

When he crawls back to consciousness, not long after, the pain is still there, cold and thrumming, but so too are two strong arms, holding him, and someone is bent over him, hot tears falling on his face.

He blinks away the salt, the blood, and parts his lips, reaching one bloodied hand up to caress the rough cheek of the man bent over him.

“Bëor,” he whispers, and smiles, and smiles.

 

* * *

 

When he was young, he learned to control his dreams, and later, to capture them, so he could visit them later.

He grew older, and learned to do the same with memories.

It was a handy trick, especially in long, tedious council meetings. While his grandfather rambled on about trade with the Teleri, he would fix his face in an expression of convincing interest, and then let himself fall back into more entertaining times.

_Riding with Turgon, the wind in their hair, shouting exhortations at each other as they raced towards the water’s edge, laughing immoderately as they tumbled from their horses into the white sand, kicking waves at each other, and later, drinking toasts to Ulmo’s name._

He’d spiral back to the council table, a warm and reminiscent smile on his lips, and later, Fingon would shake his head and mutter, “I don’t know how you can sit through those things without so much as twitching, and all the while look like Haru is telling riveting fairy stories rather than boring us all stupid with politics.”

Finrod smiled, and kept his secret.

 

* * *

 

 

“Nay,” murmurs the man, his voice rough and grieving, “nay, I am not he, merely his unworthy descendent.”

“Bëor,” says Finrod again, blood rising behind his eyes, and however much he blinks, his vision will not clear.

“Nay,” says the man, his voice breaking on a sob, “nay, Lord, I am Beren.”

But Finrod is looking at something over his shoulder, his lips curling in pleasure, in welcome.

“ _Bëor_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bëor was laughing in delighted surprise, laughing ’til his face was red and his eyes were teary and he held his stomach and gasped with it.

“What on earth is so funny?” Finrod asked, licking his fingers.

“No one would believe me if I told them,” Bëor groaned, rolling onto his side, still shaking with laughter. “No one would believe that the slim, elegant, lovely lord of the fair folk is such a damn pig.”

“Pig? How dare you. Pass the salt.” Finrod reached for another slice of the meat pie, emptying out the dish, and Bëor shook his head and wiped his eyes.

“You have been eating for the past hour,” he said, “and I myself stopped well before that. Where do you _put_ it? I have never seen you eat like this in your own halls, for all your folk make delicacies beyond imagining.”

“But they don’t make bacon and kidney pie,” said Finrod, closing his eyes in bliss. “They don’t make giblets swimming in gravy, or roast blood sausages, Eru, or crackling fried boar’s ears, _oh_ …”

“You must stop talking like that,” ordered Bëor, grinning. “It’s indecent the tone you take. You sound nigh as pleasure-addled as when I have you on your back and take you in my mouth and bring you off with my tongue.”

“There’s a pun to be made there,” murmured Finrod, searching for pie crumbs. “About sausages, and hungry mouths…”

“ S’truth, you wicked thing.”

“Mmm. Come here, and I will see if you are as delicious as the devilish foods you have prepared me.”

“The Elves will ever curse me,” said Bëor, and grunted as Finrod settled astride his lap. “As the damned Second Born who gave their king such a taste for meat…”

 

* * *

 

 

Finrod is laughing, though his ribs protest, tears streaming from his eyes, and Beren frantically tries to still him.

“Hush, oh please, be careful with yourself, shh, please. What is it, Lord, are you delirious?”

“If you could but see me, beloved,” murmurs Finrod, through loose teeth and cracked lips, “If you could but see to what lengths my taste for flesh has brought me, how you would laugh…”

He blinks in the darkness, and behind his eyes, the sun is brilliant.

 

* * *

 

The heat had made them both lazy, and Bëor settled back between Finrod’s legs, resting his back against Finrod’s chest, his eyes closed against the brilliance of the afternoon sun.

“Mm,” he said, finally. “What are you doing back there? You’re pulling.”

“Sit up a little,” Finrod instructed, dropping a kiss to Bëor’s shoulder. “I’m trying to braid your hair.”

“Oh no,” said Bëor, but he sat up a little. “Are you going to make me into some fair fey prince like yourself? All my men will laugh at me, if I come all in braids and knots and flower petals.”

“I can’t reach any flower petals right now,” said Finrod, carding his fingers through Bëor’s rich brown hair. “Ai, but look – how the sun brings out the gold lights in your hair, and red too. Beautiful.” He nuzzled his face to Bëor’s hair, breathing in the scent of fresh, sun-warmed grass and the spicy soap that the man used. He plaited tiny braids into Bëor’s hair, until Bëor pulled himself free and turned in his arms to press him back down to the ground.

“Enough of that,” he said, his lips at Finrod’s throat, his beard rough on Finrod’s skin. “We cannae spend our precious time making me lovely, eh, else we’ll be here through the night and unto the end of time, most like. There are better things to be done than putting braids in my hair. For example, we could be undoing yours…” He ran his large fingers through Finrod’s hair, pulling loose the braids and clasps until Finrod’s hair was a tangled mess against the grass, and Finrod kissed him to make him stop.

Bëor’s hair caught the late day sun, burnished with threads of copper and gold, and Finrod kept his eyes open as Bëor moved into him, kept his hands tight on Bëor’s back, did not want to miss a single detail of this afternoon, of the light on Bëor’s hair, the feel of the man’s hands warm on his hips; he wanted to treasure every second, and keep it, for later.

 

* * *

 

 

Beren’s tears are all but spent now, but he cradles the broken body of Finrod Felagund in his arms, presses that once-lovely head to his breast. There is little of that famed golden hair remaining – great chunks of it have been torn out, littering the floor and hanging from the death-gaped jaws of the fallen wolf.

Finrod has not moved or spoken for a long time now, and Beren cannot tell if he is breathing, but his body still holds some warmth. Beren tries to speak, tries to sing, a few whispery words of a song he has heard Lúthien hum, something like a lullaby.

Finrod’s eyes flicker open, one last time. His lips move, and Beren has to bend his head close to hear what rasps out. He catches Finrod’s farewell, and a whisper about fate, before Finrod falls back in his arms, the light leaving his eyes.

But on his lips is a joyful smile, as if he is looking at something beautiful.

Perhaps, Beren thinks, tears coming anew, he is already seeing the shores of that distant, undying land; perhaps he is already being welcomed by his kin.

He cannot know, for Finrod Felagund never speaks again in that world.

 

* * *

 

 

“What do your folk dream about?” asks Bëor, watching him from across the pillow.

Finrod sighs a little, brushing the hair from Bëor’s eyes. “Of many things, these days. I know some, like myself, dream of what is to come – of what this joining with the Second Born will bring, of what waits for us in the north, of what new threats come from – ”

“No,” says Bëor, shaking his head, and the lock of hair Finrod had been smoothing back falls again across his eyes. It is streaked with grey, Finrod notices with a pang. “I mean normal dreams – do you have those? Do you dream of crickets, and salamanders, and sweet flowers, you know, all your favorite things?”

Finrod laughs, sliding his thigh between Bëor’s legs. “Aye,” he says, leaning his forehead against Bëor’s. “Aye, I do dream of less portentous things. I do dream of the sweet things I hold dear. These days,” he raises Bëor’s hand to his lips and kisses it, “I dream often of you. And I would keep dreaming,” he moves his lips from Bëor’s hand to his mouth, “I would keep dreaming, my love, so that I can hold you with me always.”

“What does that mean?” whispers Bëor, against Finrod’s kiss, but Finrod does not answer.

He closes his eyes and pulls close every detail, dreaming and waking, holds it tight in his heart and weaves it into the very fibers of his soul.

He has dreamt of a dark place, of long teeth in the night, and he seeks to banish them with the warmth and love of this moment.

He closes his eyes, and smiles, and the memories wrap him close, and the pain fades into darkness, and warm arms pull him into the light.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 2\. Now [illustrated](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/post/119974600032/the-death-of-finrod-the-second-half-of-my), for double the agony.


End file.
